


Satan, settle down

by Elquist



Category: True Detective
Genre: 1995, Face Slapping, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:57:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1806121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elquist/pseuds/Elquist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s making an exception from every rule for him. Technically, shutting your masochistic nihilistic son of a bitch partner’s mouth and tearing his ass in two isn’t something you need to be a faggot for but something the average bad man can draw satisfaction from.</p><p>Rust kisses like he doesn’t really know how to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satan, settle down

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Satan, settle down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1409803) by [Elquist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elquist/pseuds/Elquist). 



> _satan, settle done_  
>  _keep your trousers on_  
>  _you can warm the globe_  
>  _but leave my wretched soul alone_  
>  _i don’t know you_  
>  _and i don't owe you a thing_  
>  _but the children lose their minds_  
>  _in such uncertain times_  
>  _and i’m woken from a dream_  
>  _surrounded by my lovers_  
>  _oh, woe is me!_  
> 
> [ Margot & The Nuclear So And So’s - A Children’s Crusade On Acid](http://moirarty.tumblr.com/post/75081151983/deathwingxvx-margot-the-nuclear-so-and-sos)

   “Should’ve known right away you were a queer,“ he says.

Rust‘s face muscles twitch and work but he stays silent. Marty watches him for four long seconds before turning his attention back to the road. It lies as an endless ribbon, cutting the barren landscape. Rust, head slightly raised, eyes wide open, is staring into the sky above them. It’s empty, wiped clean. Marty can still feel his hand on his chest, firm and warning. Maggie’s small nod as Rust leads him down the corridor, away from her. His hands close tightly around the wheel. The black book on Rust’s knees vibrates while driving.

“I should never have tried to set you up, Rust,” Marty says, not bothering to look up this time. “My bad.”

Rust, the fucker, stays silent like a schoolboy taught that he isn’t to respond to such unworthy provocations. He doesn’t ask how it is that Marty has come up with this now, of all times. Maybe all his partners have called him that, sooner or later. Damn likely, even.

He spares Marty his esoteric bullshit for two more hours. It’s his record so far.

 

 

   It’s past eleven and Rust’s street is dark and quiet. Marty steps out of the car for a smoke and they stand in silence for a while, watching the street. Rust has the book tucked under his arm and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Marty is still wearing his jacket.

„She looked at you like you were her knight in shining armor,“ Marty says as if continuing a conversation and takes the last drag of the cigarette he’s been smoking to keep Rust, the fucker, company or whatever. “Like you were everything that kept me from slapping her. Just few days ago she asked whether you’d come round for dinner again.”

Rust who already lit his second cigarette loosens the collar of his shirt. “Has she?” he asks. He sounds calm and casual but Marty notices he’s talking carefully. “You didn’t seem to be enjoying my company much.”

Marty laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “You fucked that one up.”

“She’s a good woman, Marty.”

“Like you fucking knew that,” he snaps suddenly, violently angry. „Like you were able to fucking judge that.”

Rust stays unimpressed. “I’m just telling you, Marty, that’s all.” He puts his cigarette out on the street and turns away without saying goodbye or thanking him for dropping him off. Marty watches him slowly walking over the dried up front lawn to his house, checks if the car is locked, waits for a moment and then follows Rust.

The door is ajar. Marty enters the empty white flat without knocking. Rust is standing in the bedroom, if you could call a mattress on the floor a bed, that is. He is standing in front of his books with his back to Marty, holding the open sketchbook in his arms, silent and rapt in thought. There are two spindle-shanked bird traps standing on the right pile of books.

“Jesus,” Marty says. His voice echoes a bit in the half-empty room. “Are you ever done with work?”

“I’m revisiting,” Rust answers and makes a slow, careless gesture with his tattooed arm towards the book, not bothering to look up from his notes. “Y’never do that?” He doesn’t sound particularly interested.

“You can’t see shit in here.”

“There’s a lamp. Turn it on,” Rust says, still not looking up.

Marty shrugs off his jacket which is far too warm anyways and folds it over the crook of his arm, walks across the room and switches the lamp on. It gets a bit brighter. While Rust keeps on revisiting his fucking notes Marty takes a look around the room.

“So,” he says after they both stayed silent for a while. The light reflects in the tiny round mirror on the wall. “You want me to fuck you?”

Rust doesn’t answer right away. After a little while, maybe half a minute, he closes the book and turns around to face Marty for the first time since he entered the house. The dim light of the lamp isn’t enough to illuminate the whole room. It makes the outlines of Rust’s face even rougher than usual. He looks down to the book in his left hand. Then he places it on the floor next to the mattress and looks at Marty. “Yeah,” he simply says.

The room has suddenly become a lot smaller. Rust is standing in front of him, unarmed, open, readable. Marty’s mouth twitches and he could turn around right now and leave Rust standing there, buy a bouquet on his way back and drive to see Maggie tomorrow. Wait in front of the hospital. Beg pardon on his bended knees.

“C’mere,” he says.

Rust doesn’t move. Marty lets his jacket drop to the floor. The keys in his pocket rattle. He walks across the room and stops right in front of him. He feels strangely lightheaded. As if he was watching himself. Rust smells of cigarettes and sweat. As Marty raises his hands and starts unbuttoning his shirt, Rust swallows, opens his mouth, closes it again, remains silent. Under his shirt his skin isn’t warm but hot. Marty pulls the shirt out of his pants and opens the last button. “Take it off. I’m not doing all the work.”

Rust takes off his shirt, slowly, holds it in one hand. 

“Left, right?” Marty says. “One bullet? Two?”

Rust doesn’t say anything. Marty pushes the shirt up to his chest and exposes the white stripes of scars where the bullets have hit the left half of Rust’s abdomen. Rust’s skin is dark like he’s outside daily, working in scorching heat. When Marty touches the scars with his flat hand Rust flinches and tenses up, all hard tendons and wiry muscles. 

“One went through?” Marty knows his tone is too constrained to sound casual. “Must’ve been a mess.” He pulls the wifebeater up to Rust’s collarbone making him recline his head and examines the stylized tattoo above his heart, frowning. “What’s that?” he asks. “Looks like a rune. A zodiac sign.” Rust opens his mouth and Marty raises his eyebrows and says: “It’s some really deep shit, yeah? Give me a break, Rust. Can’t bear to hear you talk right now.” 

He lets go of the shirt and backhands him. The slap rings through the half-empty room. Rust takes a staggering step back and knocks over one of his book stacks. He’s caught himself before Marty grabs him by his shirt. His arms shoot up and suddenly they’re in the same tight grip like the first time in the locker room. They hold onto each other, swaying a bit, panting. Marty can feel Rust’s heart hammering wildly in his chest. 

“Like it rough, huh?” Marty asks quietly. „You let people pick you up after work? Let yourself get thoroughly fucked after a hard day’s work, yeah?”

Rust is smiling a grimacing wolfish smile as if in pain, swallows and composes himself again like it’s costing him a lot of effort every time he doesn’t look like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything in this goddamn world. His grip on Marty’s wrists is firm. He must be able to feel his pulse. Marty pulls Rust against him and presses his thigh against his crotch. Rust is hard. He breathes against Marty’s chin and throat, leans forward, stops, and kisses him.

Rust kisses like he doesn’t really know how to. He clings to Marty’s wrists, presses up against his leg without consciously rubbing against him as if the pressure was enough for him, and bites. Marty is skilled with mouth and tongue and not a fucking coward. No woman has ever regretted having him eat her out. He has a goddamn _talent_ , alright.

Rust’s kisses are painful sucking bites, and when he catches Marty’s tongue Marty jerks his arm away, grips Rust’s hair and yanks his head back. Rust’s Adam’s apple stands out sharply against his throat. His eyes roll back and he opens his mouth and moans that it sends hot and cold shivers down Marty’s spine. Rust presses against his thigh so firmly that is must hurt.

“You know what you are? You’re a goddamn lunatic.”

Rust, head bend back painfully, grunts, half a laugh as bizarre as his way of kissing. The hand that still clutches Marty’s arm is slick with sweat. Marty lets go of him and slaps him again, for good measure. Rust’s panting. Marty pushes him towards the mattress, over the scattered books. Rust fall to his knees, half because he lost his balance, half willingly, and sits down. He stares up at Marty who is pulling off his shoes. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown, his mouth slightly open. He absently rubs his face where Marty hit him. As soon as Marty gets rid of his shirt Rust reaches for his belt. Marty catches his arm. “Turn around,” he says. “I’m not fucking telling you twice.”

Rust obeys, and Marty grabs his arm as soon as he’s kneeling in front of him and twists it back with a brutal yank. He can feel Rust’s muscles tense up but he allows it.

“Down.”

This time he doesn’t react immediately and Marty who’s bent down to him jerks his arm up and half drags, half pushes him onto the mattress making Rust fall over despite scrambling for balance with his other arm, and presses his hand between his shoulder blades. Something cracks somewhere in Rust’s arm. He moans into the mattress. Marty kneels down without letting go of him. “That’s better, Rust,” he says while he opens his own belt and then with a bit of a struggle Rust’s. He has to sit up a bit. “Up,” he orders. “Pull them down.”

Rust props himself up. He has trouble keeping his balance without Marty letting go of his arm but he doesn’t try to free himself even though he could with no doubt. He turns to his side and awkwardly tugs down pants and boxers. He’s panting from effort or arousal. Marty helps him with his free hand until he can force his legs far enough apart that Rust can kneel without falling over, the position painful and awkward. “That’s enough.”

Rust doesn’t protest. Marty doesn’t expect him to. He fumbles with his own pants and finds the condom in his left back pocket, puts it between his teeth and pulls down his pants, frees his erection, presses his cock which is pretty hard and a bit wet already, in spite of everything, against Rust’s ass and rubs against him. Gives him a prospect of what he’s gotten himself into. There’s a hitch in Rust’s breath but he doesn’t groan. He’s trembling underneath him. 

Marty is high and turned on. His blood is boiling. He’s gonna fuck Rust Cohle. He’s making an exception from every rule for him. Technically, shutting your masochistic nihilistic son of a bitch partner’s mouth and tearing his ass in two isn’t something you need to be a faggot for but something the average bad man can draw satisfaction from.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m hardly gonna fuck you without a condom.”

“No.” Rust reaches back with his free hand and tries to grab Marty’s but only gets hold of his elbow. With two arms twisted on his back he can’t hold himself up any longer. His face is pressed into the mattress. “I’m clean.”

Marty snorts but takes the ripped condom pack from his teeth. “You’re a goddamn junkie, Rust. The hell you’re clean.”

“Promise.” He pulls his right arm back again as if that’s the end of the discussion and props himself up on his forearm. The bird tattoo moves in the half-light. His left arm, his wrist cold in Marty’s fist, stays completely still. “Not exactly fucking around a lot.”

“Like I give a shit about your word. What if I’m not clean?”

“Do me a favor, Marty, and shut the fuck up,” Rust pants. “If you’re not gonna fuck me get the hell outta here.”

Marty presses his arm upwards. Rust releases a hissing breath. “Stop squirming, Rust, yeah? I’ll break your arm if you don’t stop.” He tosses the unused condom aside, sits up, pulls his pants down to his knees, not letting go of Rust’s wrists. He spreads him with one hand and presses his thumb into Rust as far as it will go, dry and with force. Rust’s arm twitches and he presses against Marty, making a noise as if Marty rammed his knee into his stomach with full force. Marty twists his arm until it’s between Rust’s shoulder blades and gives a crack. 

Rust moans, loud and deep from the chest. His arm trembles violently in Marty’s grip. It sends shivers down his spine.

Maybe that’s what it’s all about. Rust’s goddamn masochism. As if he goes out there kicking people’s teeth in because he thinks someone will punch back. Smash his head to the floor, crush his fingers under their heel, beat him to a bloody pulp. Put their dick in him and tear him in half. That’s what Marty’s gonna do. He raised his hand once or twice before but this isn’t an option for this man.

“Y’know what, Rust? How about that, huh? I could’ve been nice.” His arm hurts from the tension of pinning Rust in the same position. He pulls his thumb out and spits into his hand twice. He doesn’t bother with Rust for too long, only makes sure that his own dick is slicked up enough so that he can move it in his fist. Rust, God bless him, keeps his fucking mouth shut because Marty’s pretty sure he’d break his arm otherwise, or his wrist, at least, fuck it.

He works himself into Rust, teeth clenched, swearing. Rust tenses against him, and he slides into him, thick and full, holding Rust still with one hand on his twisted arm and the other on his hip because for one moment he’s sure he’s gonna come here and now if Rust so much as moves. Holy shit. It _hurts_.

Rust’s breath is coming ragged and bitten back but Marty’s mouth has gone dry and he couldn’t care less if he’s causing Rust fucking Cohle pain. It’s hardly his fault. Rust’s back is as hard as a plank, his neck stiff, his head bowed. Marty notices him pressing back against him. He releases Rust’s wrist. Rust hasn’t got time to open his clenched fist in surprise before he grabs him again with the other hand and uses the aching left to grab him by the neck. He presses harder than he intended. “You like that?” he pants. “Huh, Rust? How’s that?” He thrusts into him, twice, the first time only a bit, then with all his force, causing Rust to make the loudest noise so far. Marty knows he’s gonna jerk off to it for weeks. “Jesus, y’know how tight you are?” And laughs because that’s the first time he looks up to Jesus on the wall above him, over Rust’s joke of a bed. 

Rust’s voice, his neck bent, is slurred and hoarse as if he’s completely stoned. “Y’even hear yourself talking?”

“Oh, ’m gonna make you see your fucking ghosts.”

It’s been ages since he’s wrecked anyone like he wrecks Rust. Rust’s knotted back under the wet wifebeater is covered in a film of sweat and his hair is dark and wet, and his leg and his twisted arm tremble. Marty doesn’t bother building up a steady rhythm, he simply fucks into him, pulls him to meet his thrusts, opens him up. It’s easier now, Rust not all clamped up anymore, making noises now, something between groaning and wheezing as if he’s wounded, as if someone’s beating him up rather than fucking his guts out, but as his face is pressed into the mattress the room only rings with Marty’s moans, the dull slapping sounds of body against body. He’s not sure if he’s ever fucked Maggie this way. Or Lisa, when he’s already at it.

For a moment there he’s overwhelmed. He doesn’t know what it is exactly but it’s dark and violent and ruthless. Rust moans loudly. He tries to get up on his knees, presses against him, and Marty, regaining his senses already, is sure, for just a second, that Rust is _scared_. He is trembling under him as if he’s getting an episode but doesn’t stop moving, adapting his bad rhythm, panting and gasping. Marty doesn’t know why Rust doesn’t ask, as if that’s too much somehow, _touch me, Marty, Marty, please_ , but Rust Cohle doesn’t beg and Marty isn’t planning on giving him anything for free.

“Fuck, Rust,” he’s saying, and again: “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

When he finally comes, it hurts. It fucking hurts. Numbs his whole lower body and shoots up his spine, spreads across his back until it feels like he’s on fucking fire. He collapses on top of Rust, swearing, caught in a clumsy rhythm. Rust’s legs, in the position he’s trapped in, weak and shaky, give in. Marty finally lets go of him, presses him down on his pulsing dick by the hips. As if that’s gonna help. It doesn’t help a damn. Rust’s lying beneath him, pressed against him, and now that he’s turned his head sideways Marty can hear his panting and groaning. His left arm is trapped between their bodies. Maybe he’s jerking off with the other hand, Marty isn’t sure. He presses against his belly, against the scars below the zodiac or what the fuck ever tattoo, then against Rust’s working, wiry hand. Marty thrusts into him until he’s soft, until it hurts. His vision has gone blissfully dark. Hot, painful cramps pull at his guts. His head’s buzzing. He’s unsure whether minutes pass but it feels like it. He’s the one who’s having fucking hallucinations now.

They’re both panting like they’ve just ran a marathon. Rust’s trembling beneath him. Marty’s hand touches the tattoo on his right arm. Their skin is sticky. Marty rolls over, releases Rust. He’s feeling dizzy. The cold sheets cling to his skin. “Jesus,” he breathes. “Jesus.”

Rust next to him is lying face down on his tattooed arm, out of breath, barely moving. His pants have slid down to his knees and on the left over his foot. The hand of his twisted arm lies in the small of his back, slipped down from between his bony shoulder blades, grey from the blocked blood flow. His shirt is soaked with sweat.

Marty sits up, gathers his jeans and boxers and staggers before getting on his feet. He feels boneless, sated, exhausted. “Fuck,” he says. “Oh, fuck.”

Rust’s breathing into the mattress. His back moves as if he’s testing his muscles, then he starts pulling his injured arm back to his side. Marty walks into the bathroom and fumbles for a light switch until he finds one inside. Rust, the nihilistic fuck, doesn’t own a mirror, of fucking course, but there’s soap and a toothbrush on the small shelf above the sink.

Marty thoroughly washes his hands and his dick with soap. The foam he washes off is a light red. While he’s at it he pisses into the sink, dries himself using toilet paper because he can’t find a towel, throws it into the toilet and flushes it. He feels significantly better when he puts boxers and jeans back on. His pulse has gone down but his hands and head still ache. Before he leaves he opens the tab again and drinks water from it, grimacing because of the stink of piss, spits and wipes his mouth with his sweaty forearm. 

When he comes back to the bedroom, Rust is gone. The room reeks heavily of sex. The sheets are ruffled and stained. The books are scattered where Rust has knocked them over, next to his black notebook.

Marty lifts his shirt and his socks and dresses quickly and sloppily, takes his shoes to the hallway and ties them before stepping outside.

Rust is standing in front of the house, barefoot and in his soaked wifebeater, smoking. His eyes seem very dark. His left arm is slightly drawn back but he looks awake and undamaged. One of the fragile bird traps is standing at his feet on its thin sticks. For a moment Marty can see Rust building it, crouched down, face blank and carved in concentration, his fingers surprisingly steady for a junkie.

Rust exhales smoke and stares into the distance. He looks like a fucking philosopher, as if he can only think in elaborate essays on all things, in his fucking awful cryptic metaphors, half of which Marty doesn’t even get the second time, one of the many reasons Marty despises him, one of the reasons why it would’ve been fucking crazy to let a chance of paying him back like that just pass, of showing him what his fucking babbling and his stoic self-possession and his inability of shutting the fuck up are gonna get him. Maybe that’s the only way you’re gonna get Rust fucking Cohle, fuck him until he bleeds, and spit on him, and as he understands that thing about Rust Marty asks himself why the fuck he’s let him do it. Surely, there are others who would fuck him instead of his own partner, surely there are men who would gladly do things to him Marty didn’t do tonight. Surely there are men who have done them to him already.

Why the hell does he wonder? Rust Cohle is a fucking enigma. Maybe he can smell the violence Marty radiates. Taste it like a fucking color or smell it or what the fuck ever, how the fuck ever this works.

He’s standing next to Rust and looks where Rust is looking but of course there’s nothing but the dark street. He clenches his fists till the blood is drawn from them. When he gives a small, harsh laugh, Rust, who looks almost relaxed, almost _opened up_ , looks up. Stretches out a hand that is holding a pack of cigarettes. It’s a gesture so ridiculously friendly coming from an asshole like Rust that Marty laughs again. He sticks a cigarette between his lips and rummages his jeans pockets for the lighter. Rust puts the pack back into his pocket. 

“What’s so funny?”

“You just got dressed? You bled on me.”

Rust takes a deep drag from his cigarette and turns his gaze down the road again. “Yeah,” he says and exhales. “I told you I’m clean.”

“That’s not what this is fucking about. That’s just disgusting.”

Rust looks at him. He sounds tired and under the layer of stoic calmness annoyed, vaguely, like every emotion he ever shows is. The impression of calmness has dropped and Marty isn’t sure if it was there in the first place. “What do you want me to do about it, Marty?”

“I don’t know, man, how about you go inside and, I dunno, clean yourself?”

“Never torn someone open?”

Marty rubs his chin, shakes his head, twists up his face. Rust’s gaze is still upon him. “You’re sick,” he says, finally. “Hey, Rust, whatever. I couldn’t give a damn if you’re getting an infection down there.”

“Then why don’t you shut the fuck up, Marty?”

Marty stares at him. Rust taps the ash off his cigarette and looks away, and Marty sneers. “Fuck you, man.”

“Thought so,” Rust says, mostly to himself. They fall silent.

“Why’d you take the thing outside?”, Marty asks when he starts talking after two minutes of silence, unintentionally peaceable, pointing at the bird trap standing at Rust’s naked feet. “Hey, did you know some folks think these things represent male violence against the female form? See, the twigs are forced open legs and the stuff between it is pubic hair. Y’see?”

“Mhm,” Rust hums around his cigarette.

“I wanted to ask Maggie about it. Would’ve done it today but forgot about it. You messing with me in front of her and everything.”

Rust is silent.

“I told her that it was a fucking stupid idea, inviting you over again. Do you know how pathetic you looked? Piss drunk and almost crying? Goddamn disaster. And that fucking awful bouquet. Maggie threw it out as soon as you left and she’d put the girls to bed.” He grins. His face hurts. His mouth goes slack, and he bows his head and fights against the dizziness. He sways once before he contains himself, tilts his head back, draws in deep, trembling breaths. Nobody but Rust hears him. He blinks a few times but his eyes stay wet. Rust smokes his cigarette. A few streets away a car passes. Marty sniffles, turns his face away.

“Marty,” Rust says. He turns around. Rust is offering his cigarettes. He takes one. His hand is trembling a bit but Rust holds the pack steady as if he doesn’t notice. Marty smokes without talking through half of his cigarette, then he says, hoarser than he thought: “I’m serious. That’s fucking disgusting.”

Rust doesn’t react, doesn’t even give him the finger, just smokes in slow drags, deep and exact like he always does, as if it’s somehow not going to work otherwise. When he changes the hand holding the cigarette, Marty notices that his left wrist has darkened.

“How’s your arm?” he asks. 

Rust looks up to him, down to his wrist, then stiffly stretches his arm to look at it in the dim light that’s coming from inside the house. “Dunno,” he says but Marty knows that it’s sprained, at least.

“Do you have something in the freezer to cool it?” Maggie keeps those blue ice packs for when the girls hit their knees and heads and elbows. Used to keep. “I dunno, frozen peas or something?”

“Nah,” Rust says. Marty stops. 

“I can just go and get you something.”

“I know.”

“Rust, man, I’m sorry. Should’ve said something.”

“Yeah.”

“What you gonna tell the others?”

“Who gives a damn,” Rusts says, slowly, melancholically as usual. Marty’s anger is still there, curling inside him. “Nobody in the goddamn world gives a fuck.”

“That’s all you got for me? Did I fuck the smart out of you?”

“You’re full of shit, Marty.”

Marty laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Look who’s fucking talking. Fucking _noosphere_. I fucking looked that up, that’s right. You’re a goddamn encyclopedia, aren’t you? Read all that shit you got lying around the house? Normal people watch some goddamn TV. Go to the fucking movies.”

“Shut the fuck up, Marty, fucking _please_.” Rust takes a last drag, a thin noise around the cigarette, drops the stub, puts it out with his bare foot. He turns to Marty who is watching him and suddenly Rust is standing right in front of him, so close that the burning tip of Marty’s cigarette almost touches his chin.

“Jesus, man,” Marty says and turns away to get rid of his cigarette. He exhales smoke in Rust’s face as he moves, and Rust’s kissing him, pressing his mouth against Marty’s, sweat and smoke and some shampoo brand he’s already started to associate with Rust, and sex, and his hands, his left arm stiff and clumsy, pulling at Marty’s shirt. The tip of his nose is cold. Marty lets him kiss him, then presses back a bit, just enough for Rust to keep going. Rust’s hands fall down to his sides.

This time, Rust kisses him slowly and thoroughly. Tastes him. There’s the hard line of his jaw and Marty feels it twitching like Rust’s fighting the urge to bite him again but his mouth stays soft. He kisses Marty as if he’s trying to memorize how he tastes, how he feels, as if it doesn’t mean anything all that Marty just fucked him, as if he’s just got this one opportunity to remember him. His hands stay at his sides, he doesn’t hug him. There’s no space, no air between them and the muscles under his shirt are hard and warm. Next to Marty’s right foot the cigarette stub has burned out.

Marty is a good kisser, has been kissed often and well, and here’s Rust.

“You even kinda kiss like a faggot,” Marty says against his mouth when Rust pulls away a bit to catch his breath. Rust stares at him, his eyes dark, his pupils blown, his mouth shining wet. He looks like he’s just about to faint. They stare at each other, both out of breath. Then Rust’s unharmed arm tenses, his face twists up, and he pushes Marty away. Marty stumbles backwards and catches himself before he slams into the wall of the house. The adrenaline surges through him, so violently he can barely stop himself from lunging at Rust. He gasps for air. Rust, swaying back and forth on bare feet, is tensed up like an animal crouching before taking the jump. He doesn’t look at Marty. His mouth is a thin white line like it is when he takes the first drag of a cigarette but his eyes stay hard, his features sharp and tense. One of them has knocked the bird trap over, maybe Marty when jumping back or Rust when backing away.

“Easy, man,” Marty says, shocked himself, and wipes his mouth. “Jesus. I’m just teasing. I’m joking.”

Rust is still not looking at him. Marty can see him struggling with himself. 

“Rust, nobody has a gun pointed at your head. Fuck, I just fucked you in the ass and you still can’t take a fucking joke?”

“Marty, shut the fuck up.” He’s trembling, trembling like a kid watching a fist clasping a belt, like a rebellious, scared teenager. He looks like a junkie, a bizarre hybrid of muscles and hunger, dirty and covered in sweat. For a moment Marty is sure he’s gonna attack him, seize him around the wrist and slam him against the wall of the house.

“Jesus, man,” Marty says again but Rust reaches out in a vague, unsure, harsh gesture as if to hold Marty back or to hold himself back from Marty or to keep his own balance. “Get your stuff and get the fuck out,” he says.

Marty starts to laugh, half stunned, half angry, and spreads his arms. “What’s your problem?” he says. “What’s your fucking problem? I fucked you and you fucking liked it. You fucking enjoyed every fucking second you spent on my dick.”

“I said, _piss off_ , Marty.”

“Calm down, Rust, how about that? How about you calm the fuck down for once?”

Rusts outstretched arm drops to his side. “Move your ass off my lawn.”

Marty opens his mouth, closes it, rubs at his face and turns away. “You expect me to walk?”

“Get your fucking keys and get the hell out!”

Marty turns around and goes back inside, jaw clenched, rage stirring in his chest. His jacket is lying in the middle of the room that still smells of them, except now it makes him sick with anger. He picks up his jacket and walks back outside and Rust’s standing where he left him like he’s fucking rooted to the spot and not planning on moving for the rest of the night. His gaze follows him as he walks away. He doesn’t say a word.

Marty’s already on the street when he turns around. Rust, fuck him, is still standing there on bare feet, upright, left shoulder slumped, chin up, Rust who he fucked bloody, who enjoyed every moment, and Marty is overcome by reckless rage.

“You know what you are, Rust?” he spits. “You’re a pathetic little cocksucker.” He drops his jacket on the lawn and walks over to him with quick, angry steps, one hand outstretched, pointing between Rust’s eyes. “You’re a miserable _asshole_.”

Rust doesn’t back away and doesn’t grab his wrists. Marty steps so close to him they almost touch. Rust startles when he stabs his finger on his forehead and bends backwards ever so slightly. “One day someone’s gonna shoot you in your fucking head. Cut your face and balls off. Cut you up and gut you and feed you to the fucking dogs.” His finger presses painfully into Rust’s forehead. Rust’s face is blank, his mouth hangs slightly open. “You know what? I’m gonna send ’em a fucking _bouquet_.” He spits over his shoulder, takes a step back. Stares at him but Rust doesn’t move, so Marty turns around and leaves.

“Fuck you,” Rust says. Marty turns around while walking and Rust who seems to be vibrating with tension loses it. “Fuck you!” he howls. “Fuck you, Marty, _fuck you_!” He roars like an animal. His voice echoes between the dark houses, over the road, and Marty stumbles away from him, picks up his jacket, turns around and yells into Rust’s ongoing, livid screaming: “Goddamn psycho! Goddamn _junkie_! That’s what you are, Rust!”

Rust doesn’t come after him. He has stopped screaming but Marty still hears his voice ringing through the dark street. Somewhere to his left a dog won’t stop barking. Marty turns around one last time as he reaches the car. For a moment he thinks Rust must have gone inside but then he sees him crouched between the houses on the dark front lawn, silent and unmoving.

Marty sags against the driver’s door. He’s panting, clutching his jacket. He lets his head sink against the window. He’s trembling with anger and exhaustion. His shirt smells of sex and Rust. He doesn’t get into the car for many minutes. When he does, he has to put both hands on the wheel to keep them from trembling.

 

 

   In the morning Rust is already there. He’s sitting in his chair, legs outstretched, the book lying in his arms. His sleeves are rolled down and buttoned up. His face is sunken in and his back stiff. He walks even slower than usual, slightly drawn back on the left like an invisible someone is holding him back, without meaning to let it show but not able to hide it. Nobody asks about his arm.

 As they’re driving, Rust makes a joke, smiling his parody of a smile. It’s a hidden, elaborated joke but Marty gets it. He hears Maggie’s voice: _No one owes you anything, Marty. No one owes you a damn._ He looks over at Rust, thinks about laughing, but the moment is gone and Rust sits and looks out of the window without moving, on his knees, vibrating from the bumps in the road, the black book, and stares blankly out of the window into the passing swampy, sun-bleached landscape. 

 

 

   They have a job to do, and they are good men. The next day, they kill the Yellow King. For now.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr user [i-have-a-hunger](http://i-have-a-hunger.tumblr.com/post/81928500604/quick-porn-inspired-by-tumblr-user-moirartys/) did nsfw fanart of this. My bookmark of it is named _the most important true d pic_ please look at it!!!! Still putting this on my resume tbh!!
> 
> This is the first translation I ever did as all my texts – fanfiction as well as original work – are written in German. If you know German you might appreciate looking up the original version. 
> 
> A million thanks for translation help and very patient beta reading to [the-illusion-of-sanity](http://the-illusion-of-sanity.tumblr.com/)! Love and kisses!! This work is for the two of you, you know who you are. Let’s rewatch soon!


End file.
